


First Wishes

by NephilimEQ



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Complete, Confessions, Idiots in Love, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Episode 6: Rare Species, Resolved Sexual Tension, obligatory bath scene, resolved angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23024101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NephilimEQ/pseuds/NephilimEQ
Summary: Jaskier has felt abandoned ever since he did as Geralt asked him to and left him alone. His songs have gone further than he ever will. Perhaps they were able to say things to the witcher that he never had the courage to say to him in person.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 496





	First Wishes

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of the Discord prompt I got about us wondering if Jaskier ever figured out that it was Geralt's first wish to the djinn that caused him to nearly die. I took the prompt...and I ran with it and knocked this out in a day. Enjoy!

** First Wishes **

Jaskier wandered along the road, his lute dangling between his shoulder blades, looking morosely down at his feet. Geralt’s parting words had been harsh, unfair, but he knew better than to press him, he knew better than to stay when it was obvious that he wasn’t wanted. So, instead, he’d gotten the rest of the tale from the others and left. The bard may not have gotten his own wish, but he could at least grant the witcher’s, even though it felt a part of him was dying with each step he took away from him.

He had started composing the song, but it felt…lacking. He knew what it really lacked: his own version of events.

It still burned inside of him that Geralt hadn’t bothered to come to him, to wake him up, and had simply taken off with that… _woman_ , and he had, apparently, used some sort of sexual magic to drive the men away and to protect the dragon and it’s egg.

Jaskier knew he had no right to feel petty and jealous of something that was never his, but he did. The instant he’d seen Yennefer in that tavern, he should have known that it was all going to go to hell in a handbasket. She mucked up everything she came near and made Geralt act like someone that he wasn’t, pulled around by his cock instead of his brains, and it rankled under Jaskier’s skin that she was the one who did that to him.

So, of course, he’d felt a slight surge of hope when he’d overheard the angry yells and discovered that Geralt had been the one with the wishes and had inadvertently tied the two of them together. That was why he’d felt it would be alright to approach him. Apparently not.

Geralt’s words still echoed in his head.

 _Dammit, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you? Shoveling it?... If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take_ you _off my hands._

…and then that was when it had hit him that Geralt _didn’t_ care. After all their time together, after everything that they had been through, _together_ , he thought it would have been enough for Geralt to at least treat him like a friend, but apparently, he had expected far too much from him.

He’d finished his other song and it was already becoming one of his more requested pieces, ‘Her Sweet Kiss’, and he found that to be a cruel irony. The song all about how he was heartbroken and betrayed by the man that he would follow into hell itself, and people thought it to be some sort of love ballad and wanted to hear it more and more often. From a musical standpoint, yes, it was one of his best compositions, but every time he sang the words, “I’m weak my love,” he could barely get them out.

Every time, it felt like a bit more of him broke off, and another part of his heart became numb.

He approached a town, sidled into the bar and played a few bright notes on his lute and soon had a few people dangling on his words, obscene and licentious, bringing the crowd into a better mood and getting them riled up enough to drunkenly throw him a few coins, which he took gladly.

Just as he thought he was finishing up, an older woman from the corner yelled, “Play Her Swee’ Kiss! We wanna swee’ kiss, swee’hear’!” she slurred, and Jaskier was about to say no, that he was done for the evening, but then several more of the patrons echoed her sentiments and he realized that he no longer had a great, big witcher to scare them off, so he resigned himself to the fact that we was going to have to play it. God, he _really_ didn’t want to.

But he did.

As the last strains of it finished, his heart a bit more numb, he picked up the coin from his lute’s open case on the floor, and then slid his instrument back inside it and walked up to the bar.

“Uh, do you have any rooms,” he asked, and the woman gave him a look, but then nodded, and he quickly paid her a few coin and she pointed up the stairs, and he paid a couple of extra coin for a bath. Of course, it wasn’t really the same, anymore, without Geralt.

Jaskier had become accustomed to drawing a bath for the witcher first, before anything else, and so it felt oddly empty when he stayed in a room with only one bed, and feel like there was too much space in it, as if it was meant to be filled with someone else. He knew he would have to get past it, but each time anything reminded him of Geralt he heard his last words to him, and it stung like someone had just stabbed him through his chest and left him to bleed out.

A girl came up and filled the tub, and as soon as she left, Jaskier stared at the tub. For him and him alone.

He absently threw in a handful of bath salts, not particularly looking forward to it, but knowing he needed to be clean. He hadn’t properly bathed in over a week; cold rinses in rivers could only do so much.

But as he sunk into the water, his mind inevitably went to Geralt. Every single time, he couldn’t quite believe that he was alone. Sure, he had traveled for a few years on his own before he’d met the witcher, but once he’d met him, something about him sunk into him, all the way down to his bones, and now he felt adrift, even with how he’d pretty much cursed him out of his life.

He missed him.

Jaskier bathed in the hot water, silently praying that it would ease the ache in his chest and stomach, and then an odd thought flickered in his mind.

If Geralt’s last wish had been to keep Yennefer with him, to keep her safe, then what had been his first two wishes? And why had he never wondered until this point? Well, he could admit to himself that he’d never thought about it because thinking of the incident of the djinn meant thinking of the time when Geralt had first abandoned him, and he didn’t _like_ thinking about that time of his life. Also, he’d nearly died, as well…funny, how his own near death was the afterthought, that what stuck out most in his mind was the way the witcher had so easily chosen Yennefer over him.

But as he bathed in the water, which was slowly losing heat, he trailed his fingers over the surface and thought on what the witcher’s first two wishes must have been…and then it finally hit him.

Why Jaskier had nearly died, why the djinn had tried to kill him.

 _Jaskier, stop! There are only three wishes._ And then Jaskier had yelled at him, not understanding why Geralt even wanted them. _I just want some damn peace!_ the witcher had yelled at him, and Jaskier had thrown the container to the ground, smashing it…and then his throat had been sliced open from the inside.

Peace. He’d wanted peace. Geralt had been the reason for him nearly dying, and the bard suddenly felt his stomach plummet and ignored the fact that the water was now nearly frigid. Instead, he sat there in the cold water and cursed himself for being so careless and infantile, acting like a spoiled child, expecting everything to always go his way, when it was obvious that Geralt had been in such dire straits that he’d been dragging a lake trying to find a djinn.

He slid a bit deeper into the water, the cold now soaking up the back of his neck.

Well…fuck.

He really was the cause of all of the witcher’s problems, wasn’t he? It had all started when he’d pretty much forced the man to guard him at the Court of Cintra, and then it had all gone downhill from there, and Jaskier suddenly felt the weight of it all falling onto his less-than-capable shoulders.

No wonder Geralt had yelled at him. He no longer could fault him for being mad at him, and now Jaskier had the faint inclination to drown himself in the tub. Though he had a feeling that it wouldn’t work, and that even if it did, he would, once again, somehow become a burden to someone else. Possibly the serving girl who had filled his bath would come up and find him dead, and he’d be a burden to her as they would make her have to take the tub down or make her drag his body from it.

He slowly sat up and stared over at the small, meager fire in the corner of the room, and then got out of the wooden tub, ignoring the trail of water he left behind him, walking over to the fire to warm himself as best he could before he threw on a tunic and fell into the bed.

As he stood next to the fire, naked and shivering, arms wrapped around his waist, he came to the bitter conclusion that he never should have followed Geralt in the first place.

Just the thought was enough to make him feel even more sick to his stomach, but he now knew just what the witcher had meant when he said that the only thing he wanted was the bard out of his life. Well, at least that was one thing that he’d done right, so far. He’d left precisely when Geralt had asked him to.

And he had no intentions of going back.

\--

The next morning was a mess of complicated miscommunications, as he tried to explain to the woman that he’d given her the payment the night before, but she seemed to have some sort of convenient memory loss and was asking for more coin. Jaskier was at the end of his rope, and nearly at the bottom of his coin purse, despite what he’d made the night before.

“Look, I paid you last night,” he explained for the fifth time. “I distinctly remember walking up to _this_ bar and asking if you had a room and that I would pay extra for a bath. I then _gave you_ the coin, and you pointed up to the room that I stayed in overnight. I already _paid you!_ ”

“Don’t remember a thing, but if you gave me a few more coin, I just might,” she said, giving him a look, and the bard groaned.

No. This couldn’t be happening.

He started to complain again, his pitch rising, but then was suddenly aware of a distinctive silence from the bustling morning crowd, and he didn’t have to turn to guess who was standing in the doorway. It was like a curse, but he knew that it was Geralt, causing a scene wherever he went, that much was certain from the particular hush that Jaskier heard fall over the room behind him. He knew that he knew the witcher too well when he could recognize him from the silence of others.

Suddenly, a firm, familiar hand, clapped down on his shoulder and Geralt’s low voice rumbled over the silence as he said, “Knowing him, he paid the night before. He’s already paid you, so move on,” he prodded, and the woman suddenly nodded and ducked back over to the other end of the bar…and then the conversations started back up again.

Jaskier slowly straightened from where he’d been earnestly bent forward over the edge of the bar, unable to turn and face him.

“Jaskier.”

God. He tightened his jaw, swallowed, and then turned.

“Geralt.”

They locked eyes, briefly, and then Jaskier tore his gaze away from him and picked up his lute from where he’d put it on a stool, and quickly slid it over his shoulder and then ducked past him and said, “Good to see you, but I’m just passing through--”

“Jaskier.”

He swallowed. He then attempted to pull his arm from the witcher’s grasp and was surprised when it came free. He took a chance and glanced back over his shoulder, and was taken aback by the open, almost vulnerable look on the man’s face. He didn’t know what was going on with him, but after everything that had happened, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know.

He bit his lip and then kept on walking, leaving the tavern quickly, looking forward to getting back to the road; anything to leave the witcher and his memories behind, not giving him a chance to say a word.

However, it didn’t seem to matter, as he heard him following right behind him, forcing the bard to pick up his pace…and then nearly run right into Roach, who was tied up just outside the tavern, who snorted as he _did_ run into her, and then Jaskier scrambled to make sure that he didn’t fall over, ass over feet, into the dirt.

It was just enough of time for Geralt to catch up to him and put his hand back over his shoulder.

“Jaskier.”

This time, it was soft, almost begging, and he swallowed again, unable to deal with it. He had granted the witcher’s request, and he’d left him alone. Gods above, he had done as Geralt had asked him and now the witcher had the nerve to come back and say his name in _that_ particular way, as if it would make everything that he’d said to him just go away?

Gritting his teeth, he finally turned to face him. He glared…and then all of the fight just left him, as if he was deflating, even as Geralt took a step towards him, as if trying to hem him in, to keep him from getting away.

Letting out a long sigh, he asked, “What do you want, Geralt? I believe you told me, quite clearly, that you no longer require my company, in any shape or form. So…what the hell do you want?”

“To talk.”

At that, Jaskier let out a bark of laughter and threw his head back in disbelief.

“Ha! Oh, that’s rich, coming from you!” he exclaimed, gesturing wildly in his direction. “You—you--You with your monosyllabic conversations and the way you quite _literally_ go miles and years out of your way to avoid conversations of any kind! _You_ were the one who wouldn’t talk to _me_ , remember?” he snapped, unable to keep it in any longer, like a spark had been lit, and he was quickly on his way from going from incensed to inflamed. “ _You_ are the one who’s all silent and stoic behind your—your--your witchering, your armor, your--your steely eyes and jawline!”

Shit. It’d gone from being insulting to weirdly complimenting and he didn’t know how to get out of the hole that he’d dug himself into. Geralt raised an eyebrow, as though amused, but didn’t say a word, which Jaskier was grateful for.

He swallowed, and then managed to get out, “Geralt…please leave.” Great, now he was pleading. But he had no fight left in him. He couldn’t do it anymore, so he said in a hushed, strained voice, “You say you want to talk, but I hardly doubt that’s why you’re here. You made it very clear what you thought of my companionship, and now if you could please leave me alone to my misery and my pain, then I believe we could both move on with our lives. It’s been months, and now you’re here and…I just can’t. Please. Leave.”

Geralt took a step back and the bard breathed a sigh of relief. Thank the gods.

He moved to walk past him, but suddenly found himself thrown over a shoulder, and then the witcher proceeded to mount Roach, even as he held onto Jaskier with one arm, and he was so shocked, he didn’t say a word as the man urged the mare into a brisk trot and took them right out of town, to the shocked and amused stares of the townsfolk who were already out and about.

Jaskier had dimly thought about protesting, but knew that it would have been useless, so instead waited.

Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long, because as soon as they were about an hour out of town, Geralt slowed Roach to a walk, and then to a standstill, where he then dismounted and then carefully placed the bard back onto his feet.

Jaskier glared and petulantly inquired, “What was that for?”

Geralt glared right back at him, golden eyes locked onto his, and growled out, “I said I wanted to talk,” and Jaskier snorted.

“Oh, obviously. Because all of that involved so much talking,” he quipped, turning and heading down the path that headed away from town and even further away from the man behind him. “Just because you can use force to drag me wherever you please, that doesn’t mean you can force me to stay with you!”

He waved a hand in the air with a choice finger raised, and, of course, was not the least bit surprised when he heard the familiar growl of, “Dammit, Jaskier!”

He stopped. He turned slightly and gave the witcher a look, one eyebrow raised.

“And it all comes back to that, doesn’t it?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “You. Yelling at me. Cursing my name. I mean,” he gestured towards him, “You’ve never really cared. Oh, you’ve pretended that you care. Sure, you saved my life after the djinn, but that was your fault in the first place, me losing my voice and nearly losing my life!” Geralt broke eye contact at his words, and Jaskier felt bile rise in the back of his throat as he continued. “You were the one with the wishes. You wanted some peace and quiet. So…you had it. Tell me, how was it? Worth the silence? I mean, it must have been. You seemed to move on so quickly after my near death. How is Yennefer, might I ask?”

He couldn’t help it. He was mad at himself, he was mad at Geralt, but Yennefer…gods, he hated her the most. He never had Geralt, but he thought for sure that the witcher knew why he really followed him into the wilds, why Jaskier had risked his life to be near him. It had to have been obvious that it was for more than the stories and songs.

But Geralt looked confused as he answered, “She’s gone. Why do you care?”

Jaskier scoffed.

“Oh, I don’t, but you certainly seemed to…up until you kicked me out of your life.” He just couldn’t stop himself. “She must have been something to keep your attention. Mind you, I didn’t think that you went for the mentally unstable ones, but you _clearly_ do, so I’ll leave you to it to catch up to her.”

He turned around once more, but then Geralt caught up to him and grabbed his upper arm and hissed out, “I said she’s _gone_ , or have you gone deaf, bard? Now, answer my question: why do you care?”

Jaskier wrenched his arm free, just like he had before, and then yelled as loud as he could, unable to keep the anger from boiling out any longer.

“Because you chose _her_ over _me!”_

Silence.

And then the sound of Roach munching on grass on the side of the path.

Jaskier was breathing heavy, like he’d just been running from one of Geralt’s monsters, and he could feel tears pricking at the corner of his eyes and he squeezed them shut and turned away, trying to will them back, to keep them from falling. He _hated_ the way that Geralt brought out this side of him so easily. He’d done it with the djinn, as well.

He was beyond shocked when he heard Geralt say, “I risked nearly everything to save your life.”

Wait…what?

Jaskier turned back and just listened as the witcher started to speak, soft and low, as if expecting the bard to bolt at any second, which he was still prepared to do.

“When I saw what had happened, I didn’t know it was me at first. All I saw was that you were losing what was most important to you. I dragged you to her because I knew she could fix you.” He paused and looked Jaskier in the eye. “I asked her to fix it and that I would pay whatever the price.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

Geralt licked his lips and added, “I wanted to stay, to make sure you were alright…but I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t…or wouldn’t?” he asked sharply, most likely making it worse.

The witcher hesitated.

“Couldn’t. I could give you every reason, but the truth is I felt guilty. And then Yennefer tried to go after the djinn…and I felt like I had to step in, to keep her from destroying herself chasing after a dream that could never happen. It’s no excuse. Just a reason.”

Jaskier didn’t know what to say. He stood there, feeling useless, every single argument that he’d had on the tip of his tongue dissipating. But he still had far too many unanswered questions, and anger that he wasn’t sure would ever go away, as he felt that he’d been used and discarded, even if the man _had_ risked everything to save his life.

He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, and then said, “Is there anything else?”

Geralt looked even more uncomfortable than he did, his eyes shifting from the ground, to Roach, back to Jaskier. He didn’t say anything, so Jaskier just waited, knowing just how hard it was going be to wait, but he had to do it. He was tired of making the first move. He was tired of being the one who constantly filled the silence. It was the witcher’s turn.

Finally, he spoke.

“I’ve…I’ve heard word of a song. It’s been in a few places, and I’ve heard that it’s traveled far. By the same bard who wrote songs for the White Wolf.” Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat. Oh, gods above, please no. Please don’t be—“Her Sweet Kiss is what they’re telling me it’s called.” Well, shit. “I’ve heard it talked about, and that it’s…different from the others.” He licked his lips and swallowed. “I don’t know much, but I know enough to know that it’s my fault.”

Wait, what?

He raised his eyes back to Geralt’s, not quite believing what he was hearing. Had he just said that something was his fault? Was he, for once, not blaming destiny or Jaskier for all of his problems? That was baffling to him, and so he couldn’t help but say, “Pardon me, but did you just…apologize?”

Geralt looked like he wanted to snarl at him, but he didn’t, his hands tightening into fists at his sides as he said, “Don’t make me repeat myself, Jaskier.”

He thought about pushing it…but he knew that look, so he didn’t. Instead, he fiddled with the strap of his lute and looked back down at the ground, then over his shoulder, and then back at Geralt, trying to put it all together. It was an apology. Well, the closest to an apology he would ever get from him. Not _exactly_ what he was hoping for, but what _he_ was hoping for would never happen, so he decided that he would take what he could.

“Alright, then,” he said softly. “So…now what? I join you, again, and we pretend like nothing ever happened?”

Geralt gave him a look, brow furrowed, as if confused…and then his eyes widened and he strode towards him in determined strides, and Jaskier immediately started to backpedal, taking several steps back, trying not to trip over his feet as he did, but to no avail, as Geralt was suddenly bearing over him, one hand gripping his elbow tightly, drawing him up against his body, and his other hand coming up and sliding into his hair and pulling his mouth up to his, almost bruising in its strength.

Jaskier struggled for only a moment…and then sunk into it, unable to keep the moan from falling from his lips, baffled, but also knowing that whatever this was, he would take it.

A hot, wet tongue slid into his mouth and he welcomed the intrusion, letting out another moan as the hand on his arm moved down his body, sliding around his waist and shifting the two of them so that their lower halves were in perfect alignment, and at feeling the hot, steely hardness that pressed into his hip right next to his own rising arousal, his breath hitched and he gasped out, “Geralt,” to which the witcher growled into his mouth, “Jaskier,” and then slowly gentled their kiss.

He didn’t know how long they stood there, softly rutting against each other, plundering each other’s mouths, but it was long enough that soon he felt he needed to pull away for a breath.

The bard pulled back slightly, amused at how Geralt’s lips chased after his, and then breathed out, “As much I am enjoying this, I am a bit…turned around? I thought, I thought that--”

Geralt cut him off with a nip to his jaw and said into his ear, “I was stupid. We were both stupid. Can we just leave it at that? I’d like to get you naked,” and at that suggestion, Jaskier decided that, yes, the rest of it could wait, because he definitely liked that idea.

It looked like one of his wishes had finally come true.


End file.
